A Little Plan, a Little Pie, a Little Peace
by greatestheights
Summary: In December of 1998, Toby gets angry and Josh gets an idea. Donna's just along for the ride.


_**Notes:**_

Part five in my "Collection of Prompts" series. Happy belated birthday to thebreakfastgenie! Written for the prompt: "This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you've ever had. Of course I'm in." I'm not sure Josh's plan is quite as ingenious as he thinks it is, but it was an awful lot of fun to write about.

* * *

It was a great idea.

No—scratch that—it was the _best_ idea. The kind of idea that only came along once every half-century. The kind of idea that demanded swift, unprecedented action. The kind of idea that left Josh Lyman almost giddy with anticipation.

Sometimes, he even impressed himself.

It was risky, true, but what the hell was anything worth without a little risk? And if his actions had improbably gruesome consequences, well: Josh was confident he would at least go out laughing his ass off.

 _ **ooo**_

Really, Toby only had himself to blame, huffing around the OEOB all Monday, wearing an even surlier expression than usual. Josh had been preoccupied with a pile of transition memos and probably wouldn't have even paid the grouchy future Communications Director any mind, but Toby had been noisy about it, slamming things around his desk, muttering under his breath. Josh had ventured into the narrow hallway, watched through the door as Toby bounced his rubber ball so violently it ricocheted off the crown molding on the ceiling.

Honestly, you'd think a guy who'd just written himself into the White House would have something to smile about—but then, did he know _how_ to smile? Josh wasn't entirely sure. It was possible Toby expressed all emotion through frowning. Maybe when he was really angry, he just got even frownier.

Anyway.

"Long day?" Josh piped up. Toby didn't look at him, just bounced the ball ever harder.

"Long life," he grumbled darkly. "Too long, some might say."

"Uh-huh." Josh sidled into the room, dodging out of the ball's trajectory. "What's wrong? You don't like the Christmas stuff?"

"I could do without the endless muzak covers of Nat King Cole," Toby said.

"You're not in the holiday spirit."

"It's not my goddamn holiday! Or yours, for that matter."

"Well, no," Josh agreed, "but it sure makes the rest of 'em happy, and when in Rome..."

"There's a reason I don't live in Italy." Toby didn't exactly throw the ball at Josh's head, but he didn't appear to care that Josh had to duck, either. "Whatever. It's not about the Christmas stuff."

"Well, what's it about, then? And God, would you quit hurling that thing at me?" Josh held up a hand just in time; the ball glanced off his wrist. " _Ow._ "

"I am being forced to attend brunch with my mother-in-law on Wednesday," Toby said, "and I don't find it particularly fair."

"Uh." Josh squinted at Toby. "I'm...sorry?"

"Aren't we all." Toby's face turned stormier. "She's never liked me, you know."

"You don't say."

"That's nothing compared to how much I've never liked you. Anyway, it's not fair. Any other of the three hundred and sixty-four days she had to choose from would have been fine, but _no,_ she had to pick Wednesday _._ She's going to spend Christmas with Andrea's brother in Poughkeepsie, so I have to suffer through two hours of thinly-veiled character assassinations and speculation as to why she still doesn't have grandchildren. I'll give you zero guesses who she thinks is to blame for that particular slight. But does Andy care? No. No, Josh, she does not care, and she does not see. That... _woman_ did this on purpose."

Josh blinked. "Wow," he finally said. "So, it's true what they say about mother-in-laws." The look Toby shot Josh was more than withering.

"I don't know what they say about _mothers_ -in-law," Toby spat, "but mine is a sadist."

"I'm sure. What's so wrong with Wednesday, anyway?" Josh asked. "Is this a high holy Toby day of some kind?" Toby closed his eyes.

"One might say." A beat of silence. "It's my birthday."

Josh blinked again. "Your...your birthday?"

"Yes. And I was planning on doing, oh, pretty much anything but spending it with Andy's mother."

"Your birthday is two days before Christmas."

" _Yes_. It's bad enough, with the caroling children and twinkling lights. All I ask for is a little pie and a little peace."

"Your birthday," Josh said, unable to stop grinning, "is on _Wednesday_." At this, Toby stopped throwing the ball at his far office wall. He turned in his chair, very slowly, and stared at Josh.

"If you share that personal detail with anyone," Toby said softly, "and I mean _anyone_ , I can't be held responsible for what happens to you next."

"Okay," Josh said, still beaming. "Understood."

"I mean it, Josh. I don't want cake. I don't want fuss. I don't want the President-Elect leading all the worker elves in song. Do not make this a thing."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Toby narrowed his eyes. "You can get the hell out of here, now."

"Of course, of course. I'll just be on my way. And you can count on me to keep all your deepest secrets, Toby. I'm the very picture of discretion."

This time, when the ball sailed past a point just near Josh's ear, it was definitely on purpose.

 _ **ooo**_

"You're crazy," Donna hissed. "You're actually certifiably nuts."

"That's what they all say about the true geniuses," Josh hissed back. "Nobody believed in Galileo either, y'know." They had to whisper, because the walls in the OEOB were papery-thin. After they'd moved in, Josh had quickly learned that C.J. hummed showtunes under her breath pretty much nonstop when she was alone, and that Toby (when he wasn't throwing things at his colleagues) spent most of his writing time tapping a pen against every flat surface in his office.

"When do you think you're going to get away with this? Toby's almost as bad as you!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, he sleeps at his desk half the time. He's the only other person I've seen here past midnight on a weekend."

"Well, I'll just wait him out—he has to go home sometime! He has a wife, for God's sake. And would he really spend the night before his birthday holed up with the eight hundredth draft of the inaugural address? He's got Sam for that. No, I'll tell you what Toby's night will look like: he's gonna pack up at a semi-decent hour and go to bed with a bottle of scotch. That's what I'd do, if I was preparing for brunch with my hypothetical mother-in-law."

"It's a wonder you're still single," Donna snapped. She snapped very quietly, though, almost in Josh's ear. He probably shouldn't have enjoyed how close she had to lean in to do that, but then, there was nothing really wrong with liking being pressed up against a woman as pretty as Donna, was there? Nobody with a pulse should mind that.

"Donna." Josh brought out the dimples, deciding to try for boyish charm. That often helped his cause. "I'm asking you, very nicely, to help me bring holiday cheer to a bitterly sad, tragically grouchy man who doesn't even want anyone to know it's his birthday. Think of how wasteful it would be if we let this opportunity pass us by."

"You seem to have the impression I fell off the turnip truck on my way to Manchester—"

"I have no such impression."

"Josh! Toby's going to kill you, and then he's going to kill _me_. You may have lived a long, full life, but I'm young, okay? I have things to do."

"Hey! How old do you think I am?" Josh yelped, a little too loudly. Donna elbowed him firmly in the ribs.

"You don't know how to wrap things, do you?" she sighed. "That's why you're dragging me into this."

Josh hoped the smile he flashed her was winning.

"Think of this as a public service," Josh wheedled. "Think of this as my belated Hanukkah present. I swear, Donna, this will be the most excitement you'll have until we get to the White House. Transitions suck. It's all gonna be stacks of memos and...and boring meetings going over policy and Secret Service procedures with Leo...and, um, collating. So much collating. Don't you wanna do something _fun_?"

Donna peered at him, chewing on her lower lip. Josh hadn't ever realized how freckly she was before now. Then again, he also hadn't ever had much reason to be examining her nose from this precise distance or angle. Freckles, Josh had always thought, were vastly underrated.

"I hate you," Donna finally announced, and then she was whipping around, marching off towards the door of his office."

"Does this mean you're in?" Josh called after her, because it didn't matter if Toby overheard that part. Donna turned, already halfway into the hall.

"This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you've ever had." When she smiled, Josh really couldn't help but smile back. "Of course I'm in."

There was just one small condition.

 _ **ooo**_

It didn't seem likely that Donna had really thought she could eat quite so many orders of egg rolls—or that she'd needed to give the delivery guy a twenty dollar tip—but Josh had also paid more for less. There was something to be said for Donna's almost superhuman efficiency. Josh's perfect idea was going off without a hitch, and they'd only been working for forty-five minutes.

"So, what's your exit strategy?" Donna asked. She was now taking care of all the assorted knickknacks; the keyboard, computer monitor, chair, and desk itself had already been attended to. Donna had shown Josh how to use a pair of scissors to curl ribbon, so he was doing that, nervously trying not to slice his palm open.

"Huh?"

"What are you going to do to prevent Toby from committing first-degree murder on government property? I realize you've known him longer than I have, but I don't think this is quite his sense of humor."

"You're generously assuming he has a sense of humor at all." Josh finished with all the green ribbon and reached for the silver.

"That's exactly my point! Do you really think it's worth risking both of our lives over a practical joke—"

"This is _not_ a practical joke," Josh cut in, offended. "Have some respect for our craft. This, Donna, is art. Wrapping paper is our medium. Toby is our muse."

"I can't believe I agreed to this. I can't believe _you._ "

"Never underestimate the dangers I will brave or the lengths to which I will go when it comes to screwing with Toby Ziegler," Josh advised. "This knowledge will only serve you in the long run."

Donna rolled her eyes, stuck a metallic gold bow on top of the now triple-wrapped rubber ball, and stepped back to admire her handiwork. The whole thing truly was awe-inspiring, Josh thought. He wasn't too humble to admit it.

"All right," Donna said. "Now, where did you leave the balloons?"

 _ **ooo**_

It paid to be friendly with the security guards. Ralph called Josh the second Toby entered the building on Wednesday morning, which gave Josh enough time to grab Donna and drag her into the storage closet at the end of the hall. It was convenient that C.J. was doing the morning shows, and that Sam had an early meeting on the Hill—Josh was certain they both would have had something awkward to say about that questionable maneuver.

"What are you _doing_?" Donna screeched, squirming out of Josh's grip just as he shut the door. He yanked at the chain above their heads, but the light bulb was out, which was unexpected. The closet was also just a bit more cramped than it had seemed when Josh had scoped it out the other day. Donna made an angry sound and tried to steady herself—she was caught between the narrow wall and, well, Josh. It was decidedly uncomfortable.

"Shhh. This is our exit strategy." Josh tried to shift away and ended up jamming his hip against a shelf full of cleaning supplies. " _Shit_. I swear I didn't know it was this small."

"How is this our exit strategy?"

"We wait for Toby to yell himself out," Josh explained. "I gave Ralph eighty bucks and he promised to make it look like neither of us has signed in for the day. Toby won't know we're here, and he has to go to his brunch in, like, an hour. Then, Ralph is gonna call me when he's on his way back in, and we'll sneak out on the service elevator. Then, Toby has a meeting at the White House at three, so we'll come back, and—"

"Are you telling me that your genius plan is to just try to keep avoiding Toby...for, what, ever?" Donna was now leaning against the door, which forced Josh to back almost completely into a pile of brooms.

"Nah. Just until he finds someone else to be furious at. That can only take, let's see, forty-eight hours?"

"Josh."

"Seventy-two, at the absolute most. Some speechwriting intern is gonna forget to use a direct address comma and send him into an apoplectic fit before the week is out. Plus, you're going home for Christmas, and I can work from anywhere. By the time the break is over, he'll be too tired to waste time shouting at us. I'm telling you, this is all part of the—"

"I am not waiting in here with you for an entire hour," Donna said, "and we are not going to spend the rest of the week playing Russian Roulette with Toby's schedule."

"But that's the plan," Josh protested. It was awfully dark, but not dark enough to miss Donna's incredulous, pointed glare. "Okay. Maybe _this_ part of the plan was kind of, um. Flimsy."

"That's one word for it." Donna tried to shuffle around again and got her foot tangled in a mop; Josh caught her by the elbow just as she pitched forward. The force sent them both stumbling backwards—hard—into the shelves. Two rows of bottles and empty paint cans crashed down around them.

Inexplicably, Josh ended up with the sharp corner of the shelving unit digging into his spine, one of his arms braced against the wall, and the other one wrapped around Donna's waist.

It wasn't really the sort of position you'd want to be in with your assistant. At least, theoretically.

In actual practice, it wasn't as bad as it sounded. Donna's sweater was soft. She smelled warm, somehow, like...cocoa, or maybe vanilla. She stared at him (they were basically the same height, which meant that their faces had ended up only a few inches apart, and wow, her eyes were blue, bluer than most blue things Josh could think of—skies and oceans and cornflowers and maybe the actual color itself), and then she whispered: "I don't hear any screaming."

"Screaming?" Josh repeated. He felt a little like he had the time he went skiing freshman year of college and smacked his head on a rock. _Concussed_ , the doctor had pronounced him. _You'll have some dizziness. Some disorientation._

"You said Toby would be screaming." Donna sounded out of breath. "You said we should wait until that was done."

"Hm." She did have a point. She also really did have a lot of freckles—there was enough dim light seeping in from the crack under the door that Josh could almost count them. How could he have not noticed these before?

"We should see what's going on."

"Yep." Josh absolutely needed to let go of her.

"Are you okay?" Donna asked, peering up at him.

"Sure."

"Did one of those bottles hit you over the head?"

That would explain whatever this was. Josh warmed to the idea. "Maybe."

"Josh! Come on," Donna said, and so, he let his arm fall away from her, let her shove open the door and tug him back out into reality. There was something sobering about the sound of the copier beeping. The place was empty enough today—most staffers were taking some extra time around the holiday. Only a few people were milling around the other side of the big bullpen, and none of them seemed to have noticed that the Deputy Chief of Staff-to-be and his assistant had just stumbled out of a closet. There was also definitely no screaming.

Josh and Donna looked at each other, and then at Toby's disturbingly silent office. Wordlessly, they moved towards the door, until there was nothing left for Josh to do but take a deep breath and push it open.

It was a masterpiece. The balloons had been Donna's idea; it had taken awhile to blow them up, but the effect was well worth it. They were everywhere, bouncing around off the ceiling, hovering around the bookcases, tied in bouquets to the lamps and the visitor chairs. Josh had even managed to secure one to the computer, although that had taken some doing.

The desk, though. That was the real beauty. It had been entirely wrapped in shiny, green paper that heavily featured the Grinch. Donna had complained that this was a little on the nose, but nuance was not at the crux of this particular concept.

The crux (or whatever) was wrapping, and in earnest. So, yes, there was the desk, and then the chair, and then the computer, and then the phone. All of Toby's pens and pencils and notebooks and staplers and rolls of Scotch tape. Every item in the room, even the books. The curled ribbons and festive bows really were a nice touch—Donna had been right to ignore Josh's scoffing and throw them in the shopping cart.

Josh had also left Toby a bottle of Glenlivet, an empty glass, and a note: _You are a gift to this office, and now, this office is a gift to you. Happy birthday. Love, C.J. Cregg and Sam Seaborn._

(That was Josh's other exit strategy. Not that it would help.)

They had been so busy taking in the full effect of their work that it took a long moment to notice that Toby was sitting in the gift-wrapped chair, slumped on top of his desk with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He should be making noise, Josh thought. Shouldn't a person who was shuddering like that be making noise?

"Toby?" Donna asked uncertainly.

Toby sat up straight. His face—well, Josh wasn't exactly sure what expression that was. It seemed somewhere between hysterical disbelief and murderous rage. Toby pointed at Josh, appeared to be straining to say something, but Leo chose that moment to walk into the room, grimacing down at a stack of paper, calling out, "Hey, Toby, I need a minute to go over…" Leo looked up. Josh's palms felt weirdly cold—clammy, almost.

Finally, Leo asked, in a voice gone deadly calm: "What the hell is all this?"

Nobody said anything.

"Why," Leo started again, "and how, and—oh, for the love of God, you know what? I don't want to know."

"It's my birthday," Toby said. His head had fallen back to his hands.

"Toby—and I mean this quite sincerely—I really do not care." Leo turned his attention to Josh, who was staring determinedly down at his shoelaces. Donna seemed to be trying to wish herself into invisibility. "Josh, if you're finding that you have too much time on your hands, all you have to do is say so. I'm sure I could rustle you up a pile of things to do in the service of preparing to run the country."

"It wasn't me!" Josh blurted, pulling at his tie, which suddenly seemed too tight. Donna made a small, strangled sound, and Toby actually let his forehead thump against the desk.

"You do remember that we've been elected to public office?" Leo asked. "You do remember your boss is the future President of the United States? If you pulled something like this in the White House, Josh, I think we could have you—and any accomplices, might I add—deported."

"It was C.J.!" Josh cried. "It was definitely C.J." Donna stomped on his foot, which honestly seemed a little ungrateful to Josh, seeing as how he was trying to cover them both. Leo snorted derisively, but Toby raised his head a few inches, met Josh's panicked gaze. He seemed to be making a decision. _Come on,_ Josh willed him. _This is the best idea. Once in a lifetime._

"And Sam," Toby added. "Actually, I think this was mostly Sam. It has his artistic flair."

"If you think I'm going to believe C.J. Cregg and _Sam Seaborn_ would do something this idiotic—"

"They even left a note." Toby waved it in Leo's direction. With a long-suffering glare at Josh, Leo weaved his way through all the balloons and snatched the note away.

"I'll be damned," Leo muttered. He threw the paper back at Toby. "Jesus, it's incredible how much I just do not care. You can walk me through this report after the holiday—I'm going back to my office. Tell Sam to come talk with me later, would you?"

"Okay," Toby whispered. "I'll, uh. Have him stop by when he's back."

"Please do," Leo growled, and then he stalked into the hallway, muttering, " _Children_. I hired actual _children—_ "

Donna sort of collapsed against the wall. "Oh my God," she said, "you two are the worst."

It was unclear who started laughing first. All Josh knew was that the three of them stood there, howling, for probably five solid minutes, and when Josh finally caught his breath, he spluttered, "Okay, how much time do you have before brunch?"

"Forty-five minutes," Toby managed, wiping at his eyes.

"Come on," Josh said, his hand on Donna's elbow. "We'll buy you a piece of pie."

They had almost pulled it together by the time they made it down to the lobby, on their way to the pastry shop just down the block. It all fell apart when they ran into Sam.

"Morning!" he said brightly, unwinding his thick, striped scarf. "Where are you guys off to?"

"Nowhere," Josh croaked. "Nowhere at all."

"Sam, I think Leo was looking for you." Donna's smile was disarmingly sweet. Josh and Toby gaped at her. "He said you should come see him when you got back."

"Great!" Sam said. "I'll head right over."

"Uh, Sam—hold on a second," Toby began, looking vaguely guilty, but Sam jabbed a finger at him, cut him off.

"Oh, hey, I almost forgot: it's your birthday! C.J. told me you don't like anyone to know or for it to be a thing, but I thought maybe later, I could get everyone together in your office for some cake. Who doesn't like cake?"

"Yeah," Toby said, "who doesn't like cake? Sam, wait for C.J. and take her with you when you go see Leo. I think he wanted to talk to you both at the same time." Donna had clutched on to Josh's arm so tightly, he could feel her nails through the fabric of his coat. He leaned against her, head ducked, and tried not to look at Sam.

"Will do," Sam called over his shoulder. "Happy birthday, man! Hope it's a good one."

"Oh, yes," Toby said, nodding seriously. "I think it's safe to say it will be."

Screw just one piece: Josh was going to buy Toby an entire pie.

The three of them hurried outside into the sunny, freezing December morning, and lost it again, laughing helplessly in the middle of the crowded sidewalk. Josh looked at Toby, who did indeed seem to have a sense of humor, and Donna, whose infectious giggling made the subzero temperature feel almost balmy, and then he announced, "You know, with my strategic genius, Donna's flawless execution, and Toby's single-minded dedication to misanthropy, I think the country will be in safe hands."

"I've really never liked you," Toby said, but he was still laughing.

They spent the next twenty-five peaceful minutes like this: Toby ate cherry pie a la mode and only scowled at them twice. Donna kept sneaking bites of Josh's slice of pecan, which he pretended to whine about but weirdly could not have minded less. Josh began to plot a defense against C.J. and Sam's inevitable retaliation and studiously ignored the others' uninspired groans.

It really had been a hell of an idea, Josh thought, watching Toby and Donna argue over the last of the vanilla ice cream (the bakery was blasting "The Christmas Song," but Toby didn't seem to have noticed). An idea like that—you couldn't plan for it, even if you wanted to.


End file.
